Searching For The Ghost Of Prussia
by Prussian Cornflower
Summary: When Gilbert visits Potsdam, he is shocked about how much the city has changed. Russians and Poles are crowding the streets, Turks are selling döner kebab, and his people have forgotten about him. But when he reviews his history, he is able to reconcile the past and the present.
1. Stocktaking

**Chapter 1: Stocktaking**

_**Warning**__: Contains anti-Polish, anti-Russian, anti-immigrant sentiments, to be resolved over the course of the story. _

Gilbert lay in the grass by the Havel River in New Garden Park, Potsdam. The late August sun shone through the leaves of the tall willow tree above him, letting small flecks of sunlight play on his face as the branches danced in the wind.

Ludwig and Feli had gone on a guided tour at the nearby Cecilienhof palace. They had wanted him to come along, but he had refused. The prominent five-pointed Soviet star in the palace's main courtyard had freaked him out.

He had told Feli and Ludwig that he would never fall so low as to enter a building that so clearly bore the marks of the Soviet victors.

But the main reason he didn't want to enter the palace was that it was the site of his utter defeat. The Potsdam Conference had taken place there in 1945. The Allies had conferred about what to do with him, with his land and his people. His rival and arch enemy, Feliks, had won a victory here by his cunning; he had tricked the Allies by claiming false facts and had succeeded in gaining Prussian territories up to as far west as the River Oder. Ivan, on the other hand had annexed Königsberg.

Thinking of his losses brought back memories, memories of 9 million of his people losing their homes, and forced westward.

His thoughts went back to the present. He had sensed that Ludwig and Feli were not exactly unhappy about spending some time on their own without him as a chaperone, but, to his own surprise, it didn't bother him. He didn't know why, but he was quite satisfied to be alone for some time.

His mind was full of the last days' impressions. Pictures of all the sights and people he'd seen during the past days of his trip to Berlin and Potsdam were swirling through his head. He half-closed his eyes as his thoughts went wandering, letting the events of the day pass before his mind.

The visit to Sanssouci. He hadn't been there in a long time, and how small the building had seemed compared to Versailles or Schönbrunn! The building and the park were well-maintained – thanks to the oh so generous donations by tourists and well-meaning citizens, he added sarcastically. People dressed in historical Prussian uniforms had been standing at the entrance gate to Sanssouci, quietly holding out their information signs and collection boxes, humbly asking passers-by for a donation. He scoffed at the thought of the Prussian Cultural Heritage Foundation having to beg for donations. It was humiliating. It hurt his pride. Old Man Fritz would turn in his grave if he could see how low Prussia had fallen.

Despite the contributions, time had taken its toll on the buildings. It had been sad to see the former glory crumbling. The lavish Rokoko style furnishings of the rooms seemed long outdated and like a relict of ancient times. He knew that their maintenance devoured millions of Euros every year, money that Ludwig was unwilling to pay.

He wondered if he had become a burden, a ghost that haunted his and his brother's people. When he looked around, there wasn't much left that could really be considered Prussian. The people considered themselves Germans, and a lot of them didn't even know what Prussia was. "Prussia? What's that?" they would ask.

What about the Prussian virtues he had held up? They had blamed them for the rise of Nazism, and now they were forgotten. Discipline, punctuality and bravery sounded hopelessly old-fashioned after 1968. They had mocked them, but he knew better. Hard work, discipline and perseverance would always win over laziness. Incorruptibility was a gift he had given his little brother, but Ludwig couldn't even guess how precious it was.

Cornflowers, Prussia's national flower, had become a thing of the past. You didn't see them in the fields any more. They were all weeded out. Only a few people still grew them in their gardens.

They even had abolished the military service he had been so proud of. Once called "the school of the nation," the military had combined education and physical training for men, and it had made his country strong and feared by its neighbors.

What struck him most was that his people had changed.

When he had walked through the streets of Berlin, he had once again been amazed at the large number of immigrants. Turkish women in headscarves pushing their prams and calling after their small children, unemployed Russians and Poles getting drunk together on vodka in front of a war memorial. Vodka, he suspected, they bought with social welfare money.

Ludwig had been very generous to immigrants. He, himself, hadn't been so unselective about who entered his country. The French Huguenots his king had invited to his country had been of a higher social class. They had been educated and had risen up to hold positions of responsibility in their various professions.

He opened his eyes and watched the diverse people around him. Were they the new Prussians?

Was there anything Prussian anymore?

_**A/N: **_

_I feel bad for presenting Poles and Russians in such a bad light, and I apologize if I offended anyone. I'm going to show in later chapters that the majority of them are not like that at all. _

_**Thanks for reading! I'd love to hear what you think, so please leave a review! **_


	2. The Fight of the Eagles

**Chapter 2: The Fight of the Eagles**

Gilbert closed his eyes again and listened to the sounds around him. He heard the clattering of dishes from a nearby café, he could hear people chatting, dogs barking and children crying. His thoughts drifted, and suddenly he heard the sound of wings flapping.

When he opened his eyes again, he found he was an eagle, majestic and proud. With his wingspan as long as two of his arms, he soared high up in the air, flying over the land on his reconnaissance mission.

To his left beneath him lay the Baltic Sea, to his right stretched the North European Lowlands. He was headed east, to another eagle's territory. He knew it was a white eagle, delicate and beautiful. He had seen it before, preening itself, its feathers shining in the sun.

His own feathers were black as the night. They were a little tousled, but they gave him the advantage of hiding his injuries, a thing that couldn't be said of his white rival. Whenever it was wounded, the drops of blood trickling from its wounds were clearly visible on its white plumage. The openly displayed weakness attracted attackers from all directions.

To him, this provocative vulnerability was tantalizing. It was an invitation to attack, and he felt the irresistible urge to taste the white eagle's blood. He wouldn't stop until he could sink his claws and beak into the other bird.

As he soared through the air, he drew a mental map of his surrounding lands.

Farther east lived another eagle, black like he himself was, although it lived in the snow for most of the year. It was the ruler of a huge territory. What was special about this eagle was that it had two heads, each with their own will and personality. One was peace-loving, the other was cruel, and together they made the eagle entirely unpredictable. The ice and cold of its winters had hardened it, and it was a rival he rather kept at distance.

In the south lived yet another black eagle. It had been one of the strongest for a long time, but for some reason, it had recently started to change its course frequently. It flew here, it flew there, with its head in the clouds, seemingly lacking a specific direction.

He sneered at such indecisiveness. As soon as he was finished with the white eagle, he was going to take advantage of the black eagle's inconstancy. Because he knew exactly what he wanted – new land. He was headed east, and nothing could stop him on his way there.

Finally, he reached the white eagle's land. He had soon found his rival, its flamboyant looks never failing to catch his keen eye. He circled it a few times, rallying his strength, and then he plunged himself down from the sky onto his opponent, digging his talons deep into the unsuspecting white bird. An anguished outcry, followed by some aggressive hissing, and already they were locked together in a fierce struggle.

The feathers flew, and Gilbert the eagle found that his white rival was tougher than he had expected. It kept fighting back despite the countless injuries it had already sustained and just wouldn't give up.

But he was stubborn, too, and he lunged at it again and again.

Finally he managed to inflict a more serious injury on his opponent. Unable to fly anymore, it retreated into the shelter of some nearby bushes. But he went after it right away. There was no hiding in the shade when you had white feathers! Even though the bird did not move, he saw the specks of white shine through the leaves and branches, and prepared for a new attack.

A miserable squawking could be heard when he went for it in the shrubbery. Soon they formed an indistinguishable ball of black and white, bitterly fighting each other in silent combat. All that could be heard was the rustling of leaves and the breaking of small twigs as they moved, leaving a trail of tattered feathers and blood behind.

**A/N: **

_**Thanks for reading! What do you think of the eagles? You know who they are, don't you? **_


	3. Expansion

**Chapter 3: Expansion**

After the fight, the eagle sits in the top of a pine, cleaning its feathers of the red stains. He has left the white eagle in a mess of blood and white feathers behind. He fought it so long until it could not move any more, so he was sure it wouldn't pose a threat to his plans.

When he's finished, the eagle rises up into the air again. On the wide open plains underneath him, he sees groups of knights wearing white tunics with large black crosses on them travelling eastwards. Whenever they come to a settlement, they demand of the inhabitants to convert to their faith. When they refuse, they burn the village down. The survivors come to them, crying children clinging to their ragged dresses, and beg for mercy. The knights baptize them.

He sees treks of settlers from the West follow in the knights' wake. They establish farms and found new villages in the eastern lands, where a brighter future was promised to them.

He flies on and sees a farmer on the open plain underneath him, dressed in coarse blue linen and wooden clogs. He's on his knees, digging the Brandenburg earth with his bare calloused hands, planting potatoes. The soil is poor, it's dry and sandy. The sun is burning from a high blue sky above, and the light wind carries the top layer of soil with it. A farmer's life is harsh, hard work from dusk to dawn, everyday except for mass on Sundays. But his king has ordered his people to grow potatoes, so he does it. He has a young son, age 6, and there's a new law now that demands he has to start school in a few days. The farmer is not happy about it; he needs his children to help on the farm. Why should his son learn to read and write when it's already decided that he will follow in his father's footsteps and take over the farm one day? At least they will allow his son a week off in fall to help harvest the potatoes.

The farmer looks up to the sky, worried. There hasn't been rain in a long time. The earth is dry. But there still are no rain clouds in sight, only little white fair-weather clouds.

The eagle follows the drifting clouds. On the horizon, he can discern columns of riders, followed by an army of infantry soldiers in blue uniforms, marching to a piper's tune. They carry muskets and backpacks and pull canons behind them. He flies closer until he can hear the trampling of horses and the cusses and coarse talking of the men. He follows them. The armies march south, on and on, to faraway lands.

They take quarters for the night in a town west of Dresden. The next morning, they position themselves to storm the Austrian stronghold at Kesselsdorf. The battle call of the trumpet sounds, the battle begins. Soldiers are hewn down and immediately replaced by moving up forces. Men keep falling to the ground, and the moans and cries of the wounded sound over the battlefield. The earth is soaked with blood. While the Prussian forces dwindle, more and more Austrians keep showing up on the opposite hill. How many Austrians are there?

"Retreat!" the signal sounds over the field. The eagle sees the staff officers put their heads together, conferring over a change in strategy. Even the king has arrived to take care of matters in person. The eagle hears their murmuring. "The Austrians outnumber us by a thousand men," he hears a general say.

Later that day, the king gives a speech. "Don't give up, honourable men of Prussia," he encourages them, riding on his stallion. "The battle is not yet lost." The remainders of the troops are regrouped, the new battle array enacted. The trumpets sound the attack, and the second round of the battle starts. This time, the Prussian cavalry succeeds in dispersing the Austrian formation, and the Prussian troops conquer the stronghold. At the end of the day, thousands of men have died, but the Prussians remain victorious.

_**A/N: Thanks for reading: I'd love to hear your thoughts!**_


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